Delusion
by Pandemic. At the Porno
Summary: “Not till the wedding.” Were the -nonexistent- words that would teasingly slip past her -blood crusted, dry and split- succulent lips... -dark fic-


**A/N: **Hello. Yeah, I'm not too good with summaries, if you couldn't already tell. Eh heh... I'll keep this short. This is my first little fanfic, er… It's a one shot, and a little dark. Nothing really _too _sexual about it. It's just a bit… Disturbing, I suppose. Enjoy?

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Ohh, he did admit. Ohh, yes. He at least had that much sense to know, to admit that this… _This_ wasn't quite right. Yesss, that was one way (the light way) of putting it. So, when put that way, he wouldn't say the true proper terms for his self-driven insanity. No, of course not. He wouldn't go into agonizing detail about how (sick, disgusting, gut-wrenching, bile rising to the throat) immorally wrong it was. But also he…

He couldn't quite bring himself to care. Moreover, he couldn't bring himself to repent in any way he possibly could, nor could he at least correct his wrong. It was horrible, it was unimaginable, _insane_. And you know what?… At the moment…

He didn't really want to (care, repent, salvage himself) either.

Of course not. Why would he want to care, to want to make up for this (vile, insidious) sin?

Though, again, he did have to admit, he'd trusted his own delusions. Oh, he practically _confided_ in them. Loyal, like some stupid, fucking abandoned street pup that was just recently fed by a caring, pink haired (not quite a-) stranger. But that's exactly what he was, huh? Some mongrel fed by a warm-hearted soul. And he'd come back for more. And he'd taketaketaketake_take_. And she'd give. Givegivegivegive_give_. It would continue as such for some time, a strict 'I take, you give' relationship that neither seemed to bore of. She stroked him, praised him, sheltered him with that _fancy_ cardboard box, (flimsy yes, yet it still held up when it rained because he still hadn't allowed her to take him home because he was home) and even stitched him back up whenever he stepped on a stray piece of shattered glass.

Though because of an unexpected turn of events, the streets this pup prowled were dank and cold, and that warm-hearted, strange smiling pink-haired girl was nowhere to be seen. Her comforting smiling lips and shining, glimmering emeralds were no where to be seen. Now there was just an alley to turn to. An alley filled with miscellaneous items, tipped over, metal-tin trashcans dulled from maltreatment, angry, lumpy ebony bags of God knows what, vomit, and scattered various empty beer bottles.

What also resided in this alley, however, was an old, grime ridden Dumpster stationed against one of the alley's walls. But what lay behind the Dumpster was what was important. On that side of the Dumpster, when one merely peered in, a set of sandaled, slowly blackening feet would protrude. And these innocent feet would point to the bloodied knife perpendicular from their selves in a strictly accusatory manner.

Motionless, still, the crimson knife would proclaim its innocence with silence, though the trashcans, vomit, bottles and pup knew its claim was false and undoubtedly, full of shit.

The bottles would rattle against the rough pavement as they rolled along side the wind, voicing loud objections against the knife.

The trashcans would shift uncomfortably from side to side with the breezes, putting forth their opinion when needed.

The vomit was vile; it knew the knife was guilty, yet remained silent, yet secretly seething.

Because the feet's body, the pink haired girl, belonged to the pup and some how, they all knew this. Why? Why did she belong solely to him, and not the bottles too? The bottles she would pick up from time to time? Because she fed and stroked him on rainy days and lazy afternoons, spoke in comforting coos while he greedily scarfed down his daily rations.

So he'd seen when the knife plummeted and cut through the air, into her vitals.

The pup had kept her there, because she was _his._

Though now, she was really beginning to reek.

…Alright, so maybe there wasn't an alley, or an abandoned pup (who was sniffing at the unresponsive, cold heap of withering flesh and wondering why it wouldn't react to his touches, nudges, and incessant whines). And maybe there wasn't a dumpster or a (_guiltyguilty__**GUILTY**_) knife. But there was the stench of decay(-ing flesh) and there was a (pink haired girl) body…

In the alley's stead, there was the darkest depths of his home. The dumpster was replaced with a single, white (ivory and rusty crimson due to various bodily fluids) cotton sheet.

And the pup… The pup was replaced with himself. The fallen. The last Uchiha, Sasuke.

He'd (sticking with his imaginative delusions more loyally than he'd ever been to this damned village) visited her all the time. Every day. For hours on end. And he'd speak with her as though she'd shoot a cheerful, chatty response right back. (God, he talked more to a _dead body_ than anyone else.) Often, she'd (never) responded right back to him. She would giggle and smile brightly as she made small talk, going on about the weather, family, the hospital and so on.

She would (_never_) ask about his day and how he was. He'd grunt out a short reply then resume listening to that beautiful, (_it doesn't exist any more_) lilting voice. He'd allow himself to be swept away by it, closing his eyes in rapture though in all appearances, in boredom (_he had to keep appearances up, even in front of this soulless shell)_.

Though once (the insanity induced voices of Sakura) she and he were finished with their idle chat, he'd begin to touch her. It wasn't because he never had the chance to do this when she was alive. Oh, most certainly not. But never did he touch her from _inside_ her. No…

He'd touched her there enough.

Often, his touches weren't, to be blunt, too sexual. However he often found himself having the urge to just brush his fingers against the clasp of his pants. To just accidentally stroke himself or, (when she was still warm and soft) free himself and her of their lower garments and just-… And he would always shake his head at the self-implicated thoughts.

No, his touches were simple.

Soft, gentle, affectionate touches and strokes.

Callused pads would trace her (cold, color drained, chapped) full and plump, luscious cherry red lips.

Fingertips would tenderly stroke her (hard, _cold_ scratch adorned) soft, warm, smooth and flawless cheeks.

Nails would gently, teasingly scrape against her slightly protruding collarbone before dipping lower. He would carefully look back to that (beaten) angelic face as though consoling her permission. Receiving no objections, he took the clasp of her (blood stained) top's zipper between his thumb and index finger and slowly dragging it down, revealing previously concealed breasts. Though the fleshy mounds were still covered with the girl's (blood stained, ripped and torn) bra, he couldn't help but let his gaze linger longer upon her chest, shifting to the valley of her breasts and so forth. Abruptly, his hand shoots out and gently cups a deliciously (slightly stiffened due to rigamortis) breast before stopping himself.

For a few moments, he was motionless and silent, the thick air around the two shifting and churning as though stirred by Sasuke (bizarre behavior) silence…

Before he would smile a lopsided smile at her, take his other free hand and grasp her (bruised, broken, plum colored) wrist and places it over his own.

"Not till the wedding." Were the (nonexistent) words that would teasingly slip past her (blood crusted, dry and split) succulent lips.

An almost jilted smile would be curled upon her lips, and he would chuckle softly at her own almost childish teasing nature before zipping her (_bloodybloodybloody oh God, its saturated in it_) top back up. So instead, he'd take to laying beside her on the white (ivory and rusty crimson) cotton sheet, his large, callused hand resting upon her stomach, drawing lazy circles in the (stained and wrinkled) perfectly pressed material. His other arm would protectively hover over the halo of (red splattered) pink surrounding her cranium while his slender fingers would comb through her (clumps of dried blood saturated hair and coated tangles) rosette tresses. He would pause this odd display of affection only to push her shoulder length locks to the side, exposing her (pale, clammy, blood slicked) neck.

Dark onyx would lazily shift to the junction between her neck and shoulder, his incisors practically screaming at him from behind his lips to just take a bite and _a taste couldn't possibly hurt._

And she would (_**never**_) look back to him with those (dull, **dead**) aflame and lively emeralds while a wider smile would (split her lips in two if she were ever able to smile again) curl slowly upon her lips.

So he would lean closer to her and plant a fleeting kiss to her (slowly yellowing, battered) forehead, an act that reminded him of his (murdering, happiness stealing, monstrous bastard of a-) older brother's affection forehead prods.

He shook his head quickly.

The bastard was dead, and it wasn't (_was indeed, the __**damned**__ knife_) like he killed Sakura or anything.

No, she was well.

So he didn't understand why their _beloved_ Hokage was sending out ANBU teams to try to find her beloved apprentice. She was… Fine…

Though, the yellowing fingernails and blackening finger tips, looking as though she were coming down with a horrid case of gangrene, suggested otherwise.

Just a little longer… The (slightly) rational part of his mind would mumble, say it over and over again like a mantra, registering that the girl he held in his house was, in fact _**dead.**_ Yes, a little longer wouldn't hurt. Just a few more days… Then he would ask to go on one of those missions to retrieve Sakura, bring her with him with the help of his stealth genjutsus, find her, then they would see she was (_**dead**_)… Not quite so fine.

He just… He wanted to hold her longer, keep her with him, stroke her because she was **his** and she _couldn't just stop giving to him and he couldn't just stop taking from her, damn it_… But the rotting smell of flesh replacing her usual sweet, feminine scent would some times penetrate his delusions and cause his (dreams, obsessive fantasies) to crumble on the weak foundation in which they stood. The cuts on her also didn't do any good either, yellowed and blackening around the edges of the split flesh, obviously hinted decay. Large, open cuts that had once been oozing with clear fluids, hinting the beginning of an infection before they began to dry out and rot… Perhaps a shower would help?

An almost inaudible sigh was breathed before he looked back to the girl who fed the pup. The girl who was murdered in the alley. The girl who treated the pup with kindness, despite the pup's cold silence towards her. The girl who resided in this dark, dank, vile smelling room. The savior and the damner. Salvation, damnation, she did both for him, even if, in the end, she wanted nothing but the best for him.

He'd keep her a little longer, and he'd try to enjoy the stench of _her_ decaying flesh. And he'd try to enjoy her lifeless stare whenever he'd lifted her lids. And he would enjoy the feel of her dry, cracked and split pale thin lips against his own.

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**A/N:** To clear anything up, yes, the entire time she is, in fact, just a dead body lounging around in Sasuke's home. Yes. Sasuke's a nut-job now, so at moments, he may seem OOC. Yes. It's _hinted _that the rest of team seven _may_ know what Sasuke has._ May know._ If you have any other questions, then I'd be glad to answer them... And yuh. This is my first time doing one of the fan fic things, and I'd like feedback please! I'm starting a new story soon with a friend, so I wanted to practice a bit by doing this. Er, just don't full out flame me please. Ha ha, I know it's not the greatest, but it's an attempt, neh? XP Review puh-lease?


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